who fears the road ahead
by to be sure
Summary: kink meme fill "Both Thorin and Bilbo go back in time to the morning of Gandalf's arrival in Hobbiton, and are obliged to relive the quest, trying to improve things using future knowledge. Neither one knows the other knows."
1. the prologue

They wake up at the same time.

Bilbo is confused because the last thing he remembers is the gentle rocking of a wide boat on the wider sea; the cushions supporting his creaky, arthritic bones smelling strongly of rosemary and slightly of sea salt; the sounds of Gandalf puffing his pipe and of conversational ( edged just barely with anticipation ) Sindarin and of Frodo's warbling laughter melding pleasantly in his ear - but now he is curled up under his father's quilt, joints folded together without a singular complaint, gazing past his mother's curtains out to a sunbathed Shire.

Thorin is confused because he hadn't expected the Halls of Mandos to look exactly like his dingy quarters in Ered Luin.

Both are struck with a constricting sense of loss and an expanding sense of dread.


	2. a puzzle indeed

Bilbo's ears are filled. He registers the early morning Shire birds twittering now, but his ears still insist that he was _just _listening to the hoarse calls of seagulls, and sandwiched somewhere between the two is the small, curious feeling that he heard something that ought not be forgotten.

The sheets slide against his skin in an impossible soft way as he sits up. Strange. The last time he'd slept here, these sheets had been considerably coarser, made so by the march of age; where was the deep fraying from Frodo, just a faunt then, diving frantically into Bilbo's bed after a particularly vicious nightmare?

Much of his bedroom is different from the last he saw it, in fact. Did Frodo do some rearranging before-?

Oh.

Bilbo shoves the heels of his hands sharply into his eyes; the force brings colors to sprout against the black of closed lids. Oh, Frodo's beloved eyes, so blue and piercing and _haunted_. His pale complexion, the wince and clutch at his shoulder.

That thrice-damned ring.

Looking back beyond that ship is rather like peering into a well; everything seems to waver and ripple at random, and searching too eagerly leads to a shadow obscuring just where you want to see most. Living in that time, if he remembers correctly, is much worse than that. Things meandered up to him rather than rushing forward, and he couldn't get a full grasp on them anyway. He hadn't fully understood, then, the connection between that dreadful heirloom and Frodo's too-often vacant gaze. He hadn't even had the presence of mind to remember that it _was _dreadful. Bilbo cringes when he thinks of the wagon ride when he asked Frodo about the damned thing. He rejects the memory of a sunny day in Rivendell with enough force to send a troll stumbling.

"Oh, my dear boy," Bilbo mutters, then pauses at the sound of a voice that croaked only with the heaviness of sleep, not the rust of age.

Pieces are beginning to click together, and though Bilbo's always been good at predicting the outcomes of puzzles, he can't make heads nor tails of it. He's not even sure he wants to.

Bilbo clambers out of bed, and one thing's for sure: he's _young _again. He feels it in his knees, troublesome things they once were, which don't so much as crack with the movement. He feels it in his shoulders, strong as they ever were, and his straight posture. He sees it in his hands, skin smooth and unpatterned by liver spots or pockmarks.

"So, is this some magic of Valinor? To be returned your vigor, to be placed in a beloved spot?" Bilbo says aloud, rather expecting Gandalf to round the corner and deliver the affirmative in that amused way of his, or, more realistically, to simply smile enigmatically.

But the hobbit does not need a wizard to know how overwhelmingly unlikely this scenario is; for surely Frodo would be with him, and besides, even an eleventy-and-two year old hobbit could not sleep through an entire ocean, as well as stay asleep while carried through the Undying Lands.

And miss multiple meals apparently, Bilbo thinks, as his stomach begins to gnaw on his inner walls.

Perplexion is no reason to skimp out on breakfast.

Bilbo throws on a patchwork robe - another beloved relic - and moves to the kitchen, fingers tracing lightly along the well-known walls. Amazing how accurate this was, right down to the small dent Meriadoc had been so kind as to provide (the first and last time he agreed to let the boys practice juggling inside Bad End) in the dining room wall.

It is as he walks past a window that the second possibility approaches him.

He can see Samwise Gamgee walking down Bag Shot Row. Whistling, a hoe slung over his shoulder, he looks a fair sight better than he did at the docks, crying and embracing Frodo. Bidding Frodo farewell. Standing on the docks with Meriadoc and Peregrin, growing smaller as the ship moved away.

Samwise Gamgee would not possibly be in Valinor.

Bilbo doesn't even know how to feel about being sent back as a spirit (outrage, disappointment, panic), before Samwise notices him frozen in the frame of the window.

"Good mornin', Master Bilbo!" He bellows, waving his free hand over his head. His sleeve slides along his arm a bit, baring a pink scar tapering off halfway down his forearm.

Oh, havens above, it's _Hamfast_ Gamgee.

"Ronkin's wife, she's started her labor pains!" Hamfast continues, grinning excitedly, "My own is headin' over to their hole as we speak, and Ronkin's asked me to look after his cabbages for today! Oh, we're all in an uproar!"

Ronkin Proudfoot, father of Carrin Proudfoot, a persnickety little fellow born a fortnight before Bilbo had the exclusive privilege of hosting 13 dwarves and one overbearing wizard.

Bilbo had forgotten how he would faint at the drop of a hat in his younger years.


	3. snatched from the clutches

Thorin blinks sleepily once or twice, before sitting bolt upright.

"Mahal preserve us..." He whispers, because it's immediately clear that this is _not _the Halls of Mandos.

Thorin's always paid attention to the afterlife, as well befits one of Durin's line, even if they are not the reincarnation. He knows all the possible lore, has memorized the promises laid out before him, and this is most decidedly not the grand hall.

Mahal would not be so cruel as to remind Thorin of his people's poverty, at least not in this way. Dis's list of necessities, the one he had to comb through monthly and determine which ones to eliminate in order to afford the other, is even lying on the stone desk near his bed.

And yet...there was no denying that he had died. Thorin can still feel strength receding from his bones, like his very essence was detaching and curling within himself; he can still feel the scrabbling panic as his eyesight began to fail, focusing on the hobbit as the edges grew black and pulled closer.

_Bilbo._

His hobbit, shrouded in that ridiculous wedding garb, the shimmering mithril cloth so incongruous with the battle-filth caked to Bilbo's skin and the streaks of blood trickling from his hair, is engraved on his eyelids, face framed perfectly by the swirling darkness.

"Bilbo..."

And then Dis is poking her head through the door.

"What did you call me?" She says with joking challenge. She cocks an eyebrow, but, oh, it pains him to see such deep bags carved under her eyes.

"Nothing," he grumbles.

"I'm sure," she leans further into the room, "Well, I'll be calling you lazybones if you don't get up now. Don't forget, you must leave by noon, and you have yet to make a public farewell." With that, and a smile that lifts her beard amicably, Dis pushes off the doorway and moves out of the room.

Thorin wants to crumple into a miserable ball when the overpowering familiarity tells him what this is. He wants to pound his fists against the wall so hard that it brings the mountains down upon him; he wants to scream "NEVER. NEVER AGAIN." over and over until the Valar agree to kill him instead.

It is the day Thorin leaves for the quest. He must travel out of the way of the Shire, to attend a summons in the Iron Hills, a summons he called and one he now knows is futile.

(Which still rankles, to be honest.)

When that ordeal is over, he will make his way to Hobbiton, where he will see Bilbo. His halfling, his burglar, his damned _husband._

And Bilbo will see yet another dwarf come to eat his food and destroy his mother's china.

He will look at him without a spark of recognition, and Thorin might as well kill himself. Perhaps that'd even be the best course of action.

For after the night at Bag End, they continue on in the journey, on which he will subject his company to danger and death at every turn until finally they arrive at Erebor, and he repays those most worthy of his respect and care with the gold sickness. Smaug would fall, and so would Thorin.

Bilbo dangling from his grasp. Bilbo's feet swinging above the abyss. Bilbo's hands, holding onto Thorin with all their strength. Bilbo staring at him with those desperate eyes.

Then a battle, and his sister sons cut open, broken at his feet, before he too is brought down.

This is the path he is forced to walk once again.

_NO._

Something sharp and searing flares in his chest, and a slash of white light eclipses his vision. He really does collapse this time, panting heavily against the bedspread.

A voice, clear as a bell and ringing as resolutely, speaks through the haze. It's distant, like a memory, but Thorin can't recall ever hearing such a timbre.

"You are not the first to receive such a boon, Thorin Oakenshield, and I would not have you be the first to waste it."

Nothing else accompanies it, and yet he begins to grasp the name of that voice, stern and gentle, starting softly ... Y-

Dis's unamused voice yanks him back.

"Have you gone _mad_?" She storms in, "What in the name of the seven are you doing still in bed? Get up, you lazy oaf!"

Thorin doesn't have time to compose himself before his sister is pushing him off the bed in full force. Dis freezes, however, when she meets his eyes.

"Ah," she says softly. "So you _are_ worried." She places a hand - nearly as calloused as his own - on his cheek and leans their foreheads together. They remain like this for long heartbeats, the gesture simple and comforting. Their breaths mingle, and Thorin is forcefully reminded both of the rows of families greeting each other so immediately after Smaug's desolation, and of Fili and Kili playacting it for the first time, communicating in barely hushed whispers and copious amounts of giggling.

Thorin sucks in a final fortifying breath and moves back from Dis.

"The boys," he says roughly, still holding her eyes, "They will be at the ceremony?"

Dis nods, smile growing on her face once again, "Aye. You think they would miss any chance to see your majestic traits on display?"

Thorin snorts inelegantly, "Best put on my traveling cloak, then."

"Yes, the tattered furs do much to add to your general air of complete majesty."

"Get out so I can change," he growls, and he lets her receding laughter lift his spirits.

They cannot stay high for long.


	4. if I lose myself

Bilbo meanders down Bagshot Row, laden basket heavy on one arm, head tipped to the sun. The trip to the market had been so lovely, just what he needed to stretch his legs and to hear all the gossip - not that any of it was new to him. It followed in the same vein as all Shire gossip, and Bilbo was able to listen to it with the faint familiarity that comes with hearing something you heard long ago and forgotten.

"Master Bilbo!"

Bilbo turns to see Hamfast Gamgee walking towards him, waving his hat. The tips of Bilbo's ears begin to burn. He hasn't seen the gardener since his disastrous awakening three days ago. Bilbo has to force himself to stay in place as Hamfast approaches; he rather feels like leaping a fence and bolting somewhere far far away.

"Master Bilbo, did you hear about Rorimac Brandybuck and Menegilda Goold? Oh, I laughed til I was 'bout fit to weep! Missus thought I was gone 'round the bend when she found me!"

Bilbo has, of course, but he is content to hear Hamfast's delighted retelling.

The two talk amicably as they move down the lane, although Bilbo's ears will insist on burning hot red the entire time. Finally they stop before the gate into Bag End.

Hamfast's lively face has gone serious, and he holds Bilbo's gaze.

"You goin' to be alrigh', Master Bilbo?"

Bilbo softens, "Yes, I expect I will be."

Hamfast nods and a small smile returns, "You might want to splash some water on those ears when you get inside."

Bilbo scowls.

"And don't go hidin' for another three days just because I embarrassed you again!" Hamfast says, continuing down the lane.

"Awfully bossy for a gardener, don't you think?" Bilbo yells after him. His response is a dismissive flick of the hand over his shoulder.

Bilbo enters Bag End chuckling, and commences with putting away his spoils, ignoring the shattered platter in the entryway and the splintered stool in the sitting room.

When he had awoken from his faint, he was desperately trying to hold on to - to - on to - well, something he knew was important. But he couldn't remember past a fierce face and a hammer striking an anvil, and then Hamfast was peering down at him.

"You alrigh', Mister Bilbo?"

A wretched sob answered for him. Tears were streaking his face and Bilbo could feel his very bones shaking.

Ah, there is such a long life ahead of him.

"Master-"

"Go tend for Ronkin," Bilbo said (harshly, he would later realize), "You can't help me here."

"Bilbo-"

Go before my sorrow drowns you too.

"Please, Hamfast."

And Hamfast had left, but not before pressing a handkerchief into Bilbo's hand and helping him to a chair. He didn't say a word as he closed the door.

A wave of guilt for bringing Hamfast down on a joyful day swept Bilbo away into a torturous sea, and he didn't drag himself out of it until this morning.

It's all quite fuzzy, but Bilbo thinks he started breaking things right around the time he thought of Balin's tomb, deep in the heart of _Moria_, that stupid dwarf, hadn't the awful place soaked up enough blood, it wasn't _worthy_-

Bilbo slams a jar of strawberry preserves onto the shelf with more force than he intends, and exhales sharply.

What is he, an uncivilized Dwarf? To mindlessly break furniture and dinnerware, and then to just _leave it?_

How Bungo would lecture if he saw him now.

How he would lecture if he knew anything about Bilbo's past-future-present, or whatever this strange repetition lands on that scale.

And how Belladonna would smile.

"Still an achy old hobbit on the inside, then," Bilbo mutters, wrinkling his nose, "And still a mad codger talking to himself."

He shuffles out of the stocked pantry to find a broom and maybe a semblance of normality.

* * *

_autor's note_: in case I didn't make it clear, Bilbo has a sort of flashback in the middle of the fic, which opens after he faints, and then comes full around to the broken stuff. I really struggle with pacing & such.

I LOVE GAMGEES. GAMGEES OF ALL SORTS ARE THE BEST.


	5. aches and pains

a chapter in which things change and I completely disregard the geography of Middle Earth.

* * *

Thorin's eyes ache.

Everything aches, really, but it's his eyes that are really getting to him. There's nothing that can distract him from it; even closing them doesn't offer an escape.

He wants so desperately to sleep. Every night, he tries, and every night, he is sharply reminded of another failure, another wound, and jolted fully awake.

Spending long hours with eyes bouncing between garishly-clad dignitaries is really not helping with his bone-deep fatigue.

Aren't they embarrassed to wear such dandied clothing? They claim that the colors remind them of the lost hoard of Erebor, but Thorin is well-acquainted with the scent of horse shit.

If anything, they look rather like hobbits.

Thorin fights a wry smile; these Iron Hill dwarves will surely take offense if he were to start smiling in the middle of their discussions, even if they hold absolutely no relation to his purpose.

Always with the hobbits.

It is normal, he supposes, for the mind to focus on one's new spouse; technically, he's in the honeymoon stage.

A honeymoon without a husband.

Or rather, a husband leagues away, in both distance and mind.

"My cousin's face grows morose, and I rather feel the same way myself!" Dain's booming voice cuts sharply into Thorin's retrospection, "Come, my wise dwarves, let us break from this endless debate and give our esteemed guest what he arrived for!"

Thorin straightens his back immediately, preparing to run the gauntlet of stares and snide remarks; he squashes the small confusion insisting that Dain had not opened the matter of his quest in such a way before.

"The finest feast the Iron Hills can provide!" The dignitaries, and those few in the gallery above, roar in approval.

Oh.

That didn't happen last time, either.

Ridiculous, Thorin immediately responds (to himself, a mildly concerning condition he'll think on later), he cannot possibly remember every detail of the first meet, it was over a year ago!

Although it had been quite mortifying.

Dain calls him forward and they move into the dining hall together. And what a sight it makes, truly; filled with tables and lamplight and dwarves, air heavy with aroma of platters upon platters of food, barrels upon barrles of mead and the population of the Iron Hills.

Thorin takes a seat alongside Dain's chair, their table raised on a dais above the rest. Dain gives a simple toast, the crowd a rambunctious _hurrah_, and they set to.

At first, the hall is rather quiet, its occupants absorbed in the extensive spread. Soon, however, the mead kicks in, and the buzz of conversation fills every corner.

The dwarf nearest Thorin seems strangely far away; he attempts to start a conversation, but Thorin can't hear a single word he says, and so they shrug their shoulders in mutual exasperation. The dwarf turns to his closer neighbor, and Thorin stares blankly at his plate for a moment.

"I put distance between us and the others for a purpose," Dain says, throwing a stripped bone onto his plate before placing a greasy hand on Thorin's shoulder, "For what I have to say will be hard for you to take without others eavesdropping."

Thorin doesn't speak, cocking an eyebrow instead.

"Cousin," Dain sighs, "You will not be recieving aid from us in this mad venture."

Well.

Definitely different than last.

"My advisors stand firm on this, and I'll admit, it didn't take much convincing for me. Don't linger to argue. They've been decided since we first heard the whispers, and no argument you make could ever budge them," Dain takes a large swig of ale, "I was tempted to at least allow you time on the floor, but seeing you today changed that."

Thorin grips the table, knuckles white with force. The edge begins to splinter.

"You already carry such a burden over this quest... I can see it in the stoop of your shoulders. It is not too late to turn aside, you know, and no one would think you the worse for it. In fact, there are those who would think you the better for it."

Thorin is still silent. His minds whirls.

This is _different_.

Dain heaves a great sigh, lokking out over the great hall, "I say this now to spare you the mortification that awaits you on the floor. I do not wish communications between us to break down. We value the dwarves of Ered Luin here."

"We are the dwarves of Erebor."

Dain is silent.

_differentdifferentdifferentdifferentdifferent_

"It is madness, Thorin."

And then Thorin shoots to his feet. He needs to go somewhere to thinks, _aches _for it. This new rejection, though freshly humiliating, is not something he wasn't expecting, so he's not concerned with it.

He cannot resist a parting jab, however.

"I will not linger to argue."

When Thorin reaches his quarters, he lowers himself, shaking, to the floor, and presses his face into the bed.

Things can _change_.

He can fix this.

A thought not entirely his own echoes, but it relieves some small corner of him, and so he does not question.

_Finally._

* * *

four for you, Thorin. you go, Thorin.


	6. denial and doubt

this chapter was a pain to write.

* * *

Bilbo is quite purposely avoiding thoughts of Thorin Oakenshield, thank you.

He'd had 60-some years to dull that particular blade, and quite nearly managed to eradicate the pain entirely.

Sure, he'd never remarried, but that was only because he preferred being a bachelor. And it wasn't even like it was a real marriage; Thorin was gone not even an hour after their vows. Bilbo vividly remembers Thorin's hand going limp in his, Gandalf's lowered eyes as he shuffled forward to check one last time, the screams that bottled up in his throat and echoed in his empty body.

Yes, definitely not a real marriage.

And Bilbo _had _adopted Frodo purely out of love for his deceased cousins, his disdain for another cousin, and because of the spirit he could see shining out of the boy's eyes. It had nothing to do with the shade of Frodo's eyes (a sharp, stunning blue), and the way they contrasted with that thick, black hair. Indeed, nothing to do with the fact the Frodo looked like he could be Thorin's son.

Bilbo wanders down a sunlit hall of Bag End, hand tracing along the wall much like the first morning he'd woken.

The Gamgees are visiting in a few hours, and Bilbo should be in the kitchen working on that pie he's planning, but he continually finds himself distracted.

Denial is such an overwhelming thing. All of his mind is trained on keeping the deception in place, and he dares not let go in fear of the realizations swarming forth at some inconvenient time.

There are a lot of things to deny.

And no time to deny them.

Bilbo sighs as he walks past the calendar Falco had kindly gifted him on Falco's coming of age (homely little thing it is, but had been made specifically for Bilbo and so was displayed proudly in a back hallway of the smial).

He has a week.

A week to accept that he is going to have 13 dwarves on his doorstep, the only 13 beings (until Frodo is born, at least) in all of Middle-Earth he'd sacrifice anything for.

13 dwarves that would know nothing about him beyond what Gandalf told them (a lie) and what they see in his home.

13 dwarves he'd have to prove himself to all over again.

Three dwarves he's seen dead. He doesn't dwell on that (more than he already has).

Three dwarves he was spared the sight, but still knows the fate of. He mourned them not even two years past.

Ten dwarves that never bothered to visit him. He had to get news of them all from Gloin's son, 60 years later.

Tears sting his eyes. Had they ever valued him like he them?

Maybe he should just kick them right out.

Bilbo laughs aloud at that.

He finds himself back in the kitchen, and picks up working on the pie.

Making a pie is simple for him, made so by hundreds of days spent so. The actions are empty for him, and leave his mind open to continue his line of thought.

At first, he stays along that depressive thread, mourning his losses and doubting where he had been confident before. But suddenly, and he couldn't say where or how or why, Bilbo stumbles upon a new thought.

"Bugger!" He hisses as he rolls over his little finger with the rolling pin.

He examines the finger as it turns pink and starts throbbing in time with his heart. His thoughts race, run in circles.

Things have already changed, he can change things, things can change, things will change, maybe he can make the dwarves visit him afterwards, maybe he can make them care, maybe he can get rid their reservations much faster, oh great Mahal, maybe he can take care of the Ring before Frodo has to, maybe he can tell Gandalf about it, no, he _can_ tell Gandalf, he will tell Gandalf, everything can _change_, the end can _change_-

_Thorin can live._

_Thorin can live._

_Thorin __**will**_ _live._

Bilbo lets out a string of curses as the rolling pin lands directly on his foot.


	7. interlude

I was super reluctant to write an interlude, because in my mind, one interlude constitutes another; however, I couldn't think of a way to solve this through the regular storyline, and too many people were guessing about this to just leave them hanging.

* * *

Yavanna finds her husband sitting by a stream, glaring deep into the waters.

"Why do you frown so, husband?" She asks, moving behind him and considering rubbing his shoulders. He was awfully touchy, some days.

He starts, and twists to look at her.

"What was the point of even speaking to them? They came to the conclusions on their own..."

She chuckles, and sits beside him.

"Don't laugh at me. Getting into that confounded Halfling's head took time away from my forge."

"And getting into the Durin's mind took me away from those beautiful flowers. As is sitting here, talking to you."

Aüle growls, grabbing her hand, "Yes, but I'm _worth_ leaving the flowers. Like I said, talking to them was pointless. I'll admit, it was fun talking Mandos into releasing the Durins, and I didn't mind rebuilding their bodies, but I didn't even get to communicate with them. And the Halfling just completely forgot everything I told him anyway."

"Did he, my love?" She replies, smiling wider, "You don't truly think he would have found the idea to make things new? Not when he was careening down that dark path."

He grumbles low in his throat, "He seems to think he's pretty clever."

"No one is as clever as they think are, my dear," Yavanna says, tugging him up, threading her arms through his, and leading him down the bank, "Not even Bilbo Baggins."

* * *

in case people didn't know, Mahal is the name Dwarves use for Aüle. :) I'm one of those irritating people who haven't read the Silmarillion but insist on writing with characters from it, so any experts, please feel free to correct my mistakes here. 


	8. sir boast-a-lot

Thorin enters the crowded room, lowering his head but keeping his eye vigilant. He knows well how to act in the inns of Men, even ones that proclaimed to be as friendly to Little Folk as The Prancing Pony.

"'Ello there, lil' Master! Butterbur at yer service!"

"Thorin Oakenshield, at yours."

"Thorin Oakenshield, eh? Well, don't that seem familiar..."

"Gandalf the Grey was to send a note here for myself and a few of my kin."

"Gandalf! That's what it is!" Butterbur's round face splits into a grin, "Quite lucky yeh know what to ask after, I'd clean forgot. My memory's not quite what it once was, y'see." The innkeep putters behind the high counter, pushing and pulling things, making quite a racket, "Ah, here it is!"

Thorin quickly takes the note from Butterbur, and aye, there it is, "_I have a secured a Burglar of high degree for your Quest. He expects you on the morrow."_ Beside the note is a list of names, all those of his company, checkmarks beside each one, other than his own.

"You have seen all of my kin?"

"Aye! Yeh got quite the family, there! The latest of 'em passed through jes' a few hours ago."

Thorin nods thoughtfully; he's just a bit ahead of schedule. He'll likely catch up to the tail end of dwarves, which is actually probably a good thing. Probably.

"I'd like to rent a room for the night, if one's available."

"Oh, 'course, 'course there is! We've got a room made special for yeh Lil' Folk, all aired and ready for yeh. My wife'll show yeh to it. Marla!" A woman, in the very center of the fray around the bar, turns at his call. She is _enormously _pregnant, her belly distended as far as Thorin's ever seen.

"Marla's a hard worker," Butterbur proclaims, puffing up his chest, "Oughta be givin birth any minute now but still insists on workin the floor. An' look at the size of my boy she's carryin' 'round! He'll be an innkeep, jes' like his Pa, an' he'll be a Butterbur, jes' like his Pa!"

Marla is as jovial as Butterbur, and chatters at Thorin about how hard a worker her husband is and how their boy'll take right up after him ("I can feel 'im kickin', y'see, and 'e's got strong legs, jes' like his Pa!"). Thorin inclines his head respectfully when they arrive outside the room, and shuts the door firmly upon entering it.

He avoids the tavern, experience and common sense outweighing the intense urge to drown himself in the swill they call mead here. Perhaps Butterbur II will be able to best his Pa in alcohol production.

He'll be seeing Bilbo tomorrow. A day from now, he'll stand on his beloved's doorstep.

Mahal help him.

And yet, it is not that exact thought that sends his hands to shaking.

Thorin snarls as his unreliable hands jostle the lantern once more; he wants to turn it off, damn it, not send it to the floor and send the inn up in flames.

The vehemence of his desire to brag about Bilbo shocks him and seems more than natural in turns.

_His _husband had tricked trolls; _his _husband had found his way theough the Goblin Kingdom on his own; _his _husband had faced off against Azog the Defiler; by all the Valar, his husband had riddled with a blasted _dragon_.

And these simple Men dared try to brag to him?

Thorin aches with his jealousy.

For these innkeepers do have something to brag about; they live in domestic bliss. Thorin and Bilbo never had such a chance, and even if they get married again (_when_, he must believe it an eventuality that Bilbo will fall for him again, or he is sure to fall), they will never be able to. Thorin will be King Under the Mountain, and Bilbo must rule by his side as Consort.

The idea of forgoing the quest and staying at Bag End with Bilbo is more tempting than he would have expected.

But no, his blood sings the name of Erebor, and he cannot abandon his duty.

Thorin takes a deep breath and gently extinguishes the lantern. He swings his feet into the bed and prays for sleep.


	9. blinding possibilities

Bilbo had been having such a great number of debates with himself over how he should act and react and say and not say over the course of the journey that, on the morning of Gandalf's first visit, he has no plan for dealing with the wizard.

He'd barely even remembered to get out onto the bench.

"I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure."

Bilbo feels his jaw go slack, and he knows he looks ridiculous, but that's besides the point, because laughter is suddenly bubbling up, and it's all he can do to force it down.

Maybe he's going into hysterics.

It's just... Gandalf is well and truly mad, isn't he? To march right into Hobbitton, and try to persuade the first hobbit he sees to go on adventure? And to tell dwarves that they would be getting a highly skilled burglar, when in fact, all they would be getting is a gentlehobbit whose mother knew Gandalf? Bloody insane.

Gandalf is going off about something to do with Belladonna and Tooks and being late to dinner (sounds rather ridiculous), when Bilbo abruptly stands up, and says, "Come in for tea, and we'll see about this adventure of yours."

The wizard is startled out of his lecture, mouth closing-though only momentarily.

He gives Bilbo a measuring look, and Bilbo is sharply reminded of the thought haunting him all week.

His actions have repercussions, and the more he changes, the less he will be able to predict. Indeed, his actions can have quite unforseen consequences, and can greatly affect the future. Look at what happened with the Ring.

He is suddenly worried about what this might change.

"Or-or-or any other day really, I'm not sure I'm in a decision-making mood, nor an adventurous one. You might have better luck over the hill or across the water!" He scampers (my, mit's been a long while since he'd been able to move like this) up the path, and shuts the door firmly behind him. Bilbo doesn't pause beside the door, instead striding deeper into Bag End and (hopefully) leaving Gandalf to his carving.

Later, as Bilbo slips out of the smial to make a run to the markplace, he notices the blue mark, glittering softly in the light. He ignores the tears springing to his eyes, and casually allows his fingers to caress the mark.

"Bless you, Gandalf," he whispers, "May all the Valar smile on you for this."


	10. sunrise

Thorin leaves the inn early, so early that Butterbur isn't at his customary perch, and the barest hint of light is just beginning to turn the east sky a hazy blue. He leaves his payment on the counter (having to go tiptoe in order to reach it, something that puts him entirely out of countenance) with a hasty note of thanks.

He takes a deep breath of the fresh morning air, a feeling he's grown much too fond of. Swinging up onto his pony, too, is a much more natural feeling than it should.

"Come girl," he says quietly, clicking his tongue, "We've got a long ride before us."

They trot out of Bree, pausing only long enough for the sleepy watchman to open the gate.

Thorin finds the rhythm of the road and lets his mind drift.

There are many dark things for him to dwell on; there always are. He doesn't go a day with peace, has not for a century and a half. The burdened feeling does not lift with the knowledge of the quest; if anything, it exacerbates the heavy press at his shoulders.

His back is by necessity turned to the sunrise, but he sees that it has chased the night to the very far edge of his horizon, washing the sky with blue and soft tendrils of dusky pink just over his head. The path ahead is empty and enticing, unseen birds sing in the morning, and a memory unfolds like a map.

The feeling of sleeping on a bedroll gone flat over time, wakening to the disappearance of comforting warmth, a tilt of the head leading to an onrush of that well-beloved early morning scent. Watching Bilbo watching the sunrise, knees pulled close to Bilbo's chest and his hands clasped loosely in front, songbirds heralding, the sun stretching across the sky. Asking a question that startles himself and draws Bilbo back in.

"What are you thinking about?"

The smile Bilbo gave Thorin will always mean sunrise and crisp air and birdsong and peace.

"You know those moments, those places that are so perfect you can think of nothing else and all you have is all you can sense in this moment? And if you try to describe later, you can't say anything, because you literally thought of nothing but those sensations, and they're gone and there's no getting back?"

No, Thorin doesn't know that feeling, but he didn't want the worry in Bilbo's eye again, so he gently tugged Bilbo back under the furs and kissed him deep.

Today, this morning, the path is wide and gentle beneath his pony, and a golden day is beginning, and Thorin will see his husband this night. He uses Bilbo's smile and his songbirds to chase the rest away.

It is significantly later, the sun most decidedly in the west's favor, when Thorin sees a trio of dwarves ahead. They appear to have just finished a roadside meal, and Thorin looses a shout to prevent their departure. They wait patiently for him to arrive. He has not been cantering towards them for long before he realizes that it is Bofur, Bifur and Bombur waiting. Bofur swings himself into the saddle just as Thorin begins to pull abreast. The four swap pleasantries without dismounting, and nudge their ponies forward into a mutual pace.

Thorin has mixed feelings about arriving at Bag End in a group, but this clan is doing a good job of keeping his dreary thoughts away with their excessive chatter, and what does it really matter either way?

Thorin saves time by not losing his way twice, but dark has fallen as they turn onto Bag Shot Row. Gandalf looms out of the dusk suddenly, and all four dwarves draw their weapons before they realize who it is. The wizard chuckles, and exchanges not-quite-polite (on Thorin's part, least) pleasantries as the dwarves dismount.

They tie the ponies to a nearby tree; Bombur ties Thorin's for him because Thorin's hands have begun to shake wildly.

When they send him inquisitive looks, he brushes them aside with a "I have been clutching reins for a fortnight now," and moves to the gate into Bag End.

Gandalf has on that particular thinking look that almost invariably means trouble.

Thorin smiles shakily at the sight of the mark on Bilbo's door, and raises his trembling knuckles to knock. He wants to hide his weakness, but his knees are threatening to collapse. He elects to carefully lean his weight on the door. For some reason the dwarves take this as an invitation to crowd about him.

Thorin's strength is absolutely gone when he hears Bilbo (Thorin chokes on his heart in his throat) snap, "Confounded dwarves, have to show up one at a time, I have better things to do than open the door ten times-"

The dwarf doesn't think to remove his weight from the door, and the next thing he knows is Bombur's girth pressing Thorin into the smooth flagstones of Bag End.


	11. every hour has come to this

Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur spring up faster than Bilbo would have expected, leaving Thorin sprawled on the ground, grumbling something in Khuzdul. Bofur introduces himself and his family members as Bifur helps haul Thorin to his feet. Bilbo can barely choke out a "Bilbo Baggins, at yours," in response.

When Thorin's eyes find his, Bilbo has his knuckles pressed to his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep the hysterical chuckles at bay. His eyes are so vivid, always were, and though Bilbo can't read them (rather out of practice, he supposes), it's enough to send his breath skittering.

And, oh yes, there's that wonderful feeling of his heart frantically trying to throw itself out of his chest and into Thorin's hands. The damn thing has always been too trusting.

Gandalf steps over the doorstep as gracefully he can, which means not at all; he barely ducks in time to avoid beaning his head on the outside of the door frame, and then bumbles straight into the chandelier. Once he's straightened the light fixture, Gandalf turns to scold the hobbit, "Really Bilbo, you ought to be more careful! Quite unlike you to keep friends waiting on the mat, and then open the door like a pop-gun!"

The laughter is threatening to bubble out through his very fingertips by this point, but Bilbo manages to reply, "Terribly sorry, Gandalf. And to you, Master...?"

"Ah, yes," Gandalf says, placing a hand on Thorin's shoulder, "This is Thorin Oakenshield, leader of our Company!"

Thorin is still staring intently, has not stopped since their eyes first met, and Bilbo is all a dither. Damn that dwarf, how is anyone supposed to think straight with that kind of a gaze weighing on them?

"Well met, I'm sure," The hilarity and momentary chaos of this arrival is beginning to wear off, and Bilbo sends a quick prayer to Eru that his voice sounds much steadier than it feels leaving his throat, "I am sorry about your fall; I can hardly think it was a pleasant feeling. I tripped over those stones often as a faunt...not that you are a faunt or walk like one or, oh I'm terribly sorry-"

"Pray, don't mention it," Thorin says, and Bilbo _swears _a smirk is tugging up on the corner of his mouth.

Damn him.

Bilbo watches as Thorin is mobbed by his nephews, and as the rest of the Company files out of the dining room to greet their leader. The sight of it, of his beloved dwarves all reunited and boisterous and confident, sends the hobbit scurrying to the shelter of the back guest room, muttering about getting more dishes; he's already used the pretense to get his emotions under control multiple times, though Fili and Kili's arrival forced him into locking himself in the washroom for several minutes.

Maybe he ought to do that this time.

Bilbo all but collapses on the ground, propping his back against the bed, hunching forward and hiding his face in his hands. He can feel those traitorous tears pooling, and he sharply reminds them that he has guests, he has a husband to force into loving him again-that's a great thought, it'll definitely force the tears away again.

Instead, he tries to seize on the confusion lingering on the corners of his mind; surely he would remember if Thorin had had such an...undignified entrance? Hadn't Thorin arrived by himself, and hadn't he said something vaguely unpleasant to him? It has, of course, been decades, but Bilbo hadn't thought his memory _that _spotty.

What could have changed? Had Gandalf talked Thorin into being polite? They'd arrived together, so it was plausible, but... How did that change? Something Bilbo did must have changed it all so that Gandalf ended up meeting with Thorin... and with the Úr trio...

Bilbo slides his hands into his curls, tugging slightly, and staring forward with wide eyes. There are just too many possibilities; he could have done something a week ago that changed this, for all he knows.

His eyes begin to moisten. How is he supposed to live like this? Go on an extremely dangerous quest like this? It would be impossible to calculate every possible outcome or effect of every possible action, and he doesn't trust himself to know what must be the same and what must be changed.

Bilbo can't do this alone. He just can't.

Footsteps approach the room, and Bilbo can't move, not even to shift into a position more conducive to fetching plates; he's not even on the same side of the room as the china cabinet.

"My dear hobbit," Gandalf begins as he rounds the corner; at the sight of Bilbo, however, he pulls up short.

"This-This isn't exactly what I meant by tea, my old friend," Bilbo says, brushing his hands over his cheeks. He smiles at the wizard, though he can feel how thin it is.

Gandalf's brow furrows.

Now or never, then.

"Gandalf... I'm afraid something terribly extraordinary has happened to me. Extraordinary and unbelievable and...bewildering." His eyes, having drifted to stare at the wall beside Gandalf, snap back to the wizard, and he adds, with a curling mouth, "And no, I'm not talking about the 13 dwarves eating me out of house and home."

"Then what are you talking about, Bilbo?"

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, and a large, dwarven outburst cuts him off. Most of it is a roar of Khuzdul, but Bilbo hears a warning for care in Westron, and he _knows_ Fili is walking on his table again.

Yes, and there's the sound of him kicking off a tankard.

"No no, nonono, _NO._"

He'll have to talk to Gandalf later. Heir of Durin or no, no one walks on his dining table.

* * *

The dishes are impeccably clean, of course, dwarves are actually quite fastidious about the business, but Bilbo is feeling rather contrary after that frankly insulting song (he doesn't _hate_ it so much as he just feels uncomfortable with plates being thrown around everybody's heads, in no way is that unreasonable), and so he stands in the kitchen, stacking the dishes into the wash basin, a towel slung over his shoulder in the case of a missed spot.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Thorin standing in the doorway, but the incorrigible dwarf has been staring and flustering him all night, even laughing along with the song, looking right at home, and so Bilbo is even _more _cross with him.

Bilbo feels keenly both Thorin's gaze and his own foolishness.

He heaves a sigh, and turns to face his husband, "Can I help you, Master Dwarf?"

Thorin gives him a long look, "Gandalf gave you my name."

"And who says I remember it?"

Thorin grins, "Then allow me to introduce myself again." He sweeps into a bow, "Thorin Oakenshield, at your service."

"Bilbo Baggins, at your service and your family's."

Gandalf must have spoke to Thorin at some point; why would else he be so courteous?

Since when did Thorin listen to Gandalf?

"Well then, Mr. Baggins, I find myself very interested in the culture of your people. Perhaps, over the course of our journey, you would be so kind as to educate me?" Thorin's eyes are sparkling, he looks much too alive, and Bilbo is thoroughly confused.

And so he responds with the tool Bagginses have relied upon for generations when faced with impossible situations, relatives, or dwarves.

Superiority.

"Perhaps I will," Bilbo says, throwing the towel onto the counter, "_if_ I join this adventure of yours."

He breezes past Thorin, leaving the dwarf alone in the kitchen and joining the ruckus across the hall.

* * *

author's note: a few of these lines are quoted directly from the book. hope you enjoyed!


	12. I'll give you all

Thorin can't help his smile; the corners of his mouth are as willful as his hobbit.

He looks down at his empty hands, flexing them slightly, studiously ignoring his shaky breaths.

If, he'd said.

Thorin tries to groan as he leans against the doorframe, but his throat is dry and empty. He knows it's foolish to panic; Bilbo had come on the first trip, in the face of Thorin's disapproval (bullheaded, idiotic dwarfling that he had been). Surely he would be further coaxed this time by friendliness?

Perhaps, though, just now, they'd flirted (a term Bilbo had acquainted him with in their time at Beorn's), and Thorin couldn't bring himself to regret it. The feeling of it was so familiar, so reminiscent of Laketown. He sent another twisting smile to his hands.

"Uncle?" Thorin turns to see Kili padding towards him, smiling wide, "Gandalf says you should come join us in the dining room. Important quest knowledge, contracts to be presented, the like."

Thorin nods, closing his eyes for a moment and taking in a fortifying breath. When he opens them again, Kili stands in front of him, peering up at him. Thorin can't say what or why, but something in the gaze feels...unsettled.

"What is it, _gimlith_?"

"I..." Kili's brows knit together, and Thorin aches to see such an expression on his young face. Thorin knows the feel of it well, and the thoughts that generate it better.

He is a fool and a poor uncle still.

A few more Khuzdul words escape him as he draws Kili close, lightly pushing their foreheads together and muttering the same assurances as those he gave at Kili's first breath.

Kili does not stay in his embrace as long as he might once have. The young dwarf backs out of Thorin's arms, shakes his body vigorously, as if trying throw off enemies, "They will have everything decided without us by now, Uncle!"

They return to the dining room, where Thorin finds his plate untouched and Kili slides back next to Fili. Thorin catches a glimpse of Kili, brow still furrowed, brushing his fingers along Fili's jawline, exactly where the goblin, that final goblin, had...

Nori leans across the table, grabbing at one foodstuff or another, and when he leans back, the two brothers are laughing uproariously and Gandalf is trying to hand him his father's map.

"A little more light, perhaps, Bilbo," the wizard says, and Thorin steps back into familiar territory.

* * *

Bilbo does not faint this time, but neither does he agree to come, and Thorin is left staring into the fire, trying not to bite off the stem of his pipe.

"The lad hasn't said no yet, Thorin," Balin says, placing a hand on Thorin's shoulder, "And if he does, I cannot believe the quest will not suffer any true loss."

Balin does not aid in his attempt to keep his pipe stem whole.

After a moment, Balin merely sighs and joins his brother on the other side of the room. Almost on cue, Bilbo enters the room through the doorway nearest Thorin, carrying a stack of quilt he can barely see over. Thorin takes it upon himself to help Bilbo distribute them, staying silent as Bilbo tells the dwarves the arrangements he has made for them, directing a few to guest rooms and telling the rest they'll have to make do with the floor here in the sitting room, as "no hobbit hole is built to fit 13 dwarves and a confounded Wizard, not even the biggest in all Hobbiton."

"Thank you kindly, Master Baggins," Thorin says once Bilbo is finished, taking the final blanket from the hobbit. Bilbo's eyes widen as Thorin's hands linger over his, and he beats what seems to be a hasty retreat. The rest of the company nod their thanks, and Thorin returns to the hearthstone.

Soon, Bilbo is laughing along with the dwarven antics, and Thorin resists the urge to brace himself against the warmed stone.

Oh, how he has wanted this night.

He only _needed _once, when he first saw his husband and heard him laughing down at him. The sting of humiliation had been enough to keep him sane (his common sense having completely vanished, likely crushed into oblivion by Bombur), prevented him from gathering the hobbit into his arms, but only just.

Then Bilbo had turned to him, all blush and fluster, and Thorin _wanted._

No, not the desire of the body. He's carefully guarded against that, trained by decades upon decades of restraint. His training had not encompassed the desires of the heart (great Mahal, they would take away the right of being a dwarf if anyone knew him capable of such drivel), and it is these Thorin grapples with.

Foolish dwarf.

There, in the kitchen, he wanted, and again now, in this cozy room, he wants with all the strength his weary heart can muster; wants to worm past Bilbo's tight armor of flush and bluster, sit with the others to learn what makes him laugh and what makes the others laugh with him, wants to hold him tight and promise the sky and the stars and the Misty Mountains laid down at his feet as stepping stones.

In the course of his wandering thoughts, the room has gone still, the desperate joviality of the gathering abruptly wearing out. The weight of the coming months is a stone on his chest again, and it's the worse for knowing his kin suffers too.

From some unidentifiable source, a different sound comes swelling, more honest and true than before; and it is suddenly a chorus, the deep rumble of all dwarven song intermingling with the sorrow that has tainted his folk. The dark wildness of him awakes, and Thorin thinks only of his home burning, of his life's path twisting in on itself, and naught of his husband behind him.

* * *

I'm so sorry about the wait, guys! shit got really intense at school. but I just took my AP test today, so that'll free up a lot of time! :)  
I tried to stretch out this chapter, because you guys definitely deserve longer chapters, but Thorin was fighting me every step of the way.

gimlith is khuzdul for the star that is young. this is an extension of a headcanon for Fili and Kili; I'm thinking about writing a little fic about it, as they'll appear in this series. also, I found a super comprehensive neo-khuzdul dictionary, so expect to see some dwarvish terminology! :) I'm pumped.


	13. in preparation

Bilbo decides to wait for dawn before emerging from his room; any earlier and it might become obvious to waking dwarves that he didn't get a wink of sleep, but he needs to start on breakfast before any waking dwarves see fit to help themselves. He combs through his pack one final time, checking and double checking and triple checking that he has all he needs.

He stares at the thick pack for a moment, before muttering, "Rope. And handkerchiefs."

The handkerchiefs he keeps in a drawer of his nightstand; he picks out the heaviest ones, made for sopping up the dirt and sweat one inevitably required when gardening. First Bilbo had thought them made of the toughest material, unparalleled by any other work handkerchiefs, until he'd returned from Erebor with the handkerchief First Bofur had so kindly donated from his coat.

Bilbo's taken to referring to anything or anyone from the previous go-round as First, just for convenience's sake. For sometimes his thoughts tend to go around and around, whipping themselves in a flurry, leaving him behind confused and dazed.

Rope is kept out back, with the gardening tools and such. He looks in on the pantry on his way there, mournfully denotes the emptiness of it, and decides to filch some eggs from the Gamgees, as well as pick ripe fruits from other neighboring gardens. His own is predominantly vegetables, unfitting for breakfast, and he's never enjoyed keeping chickens.

Before the First Adventure, he'd bought what he lacked from the market. It was harder to shake off the burglar tendencies than he'd originally expected.

He is both resigned and irritated to see Thorin awake and perched on a stool, eyes flitting about the room as if expecting orcs to come out of the (tasteful, whatever Lobelia might have to say) floral wallpaper. Bilbo stops tiptoeing by, meets Thorin's eye, and gestures towards the kitchen. Thorin nods, standing and stretching. Bilbo averts his eyes from Thorin's languorous movements and scurries to the kitchen.

"I was just about to prepare breakfast, but considering you and your Company emptied my pantry last night, I don't suppose you'd be willing to help me round up the ingredients?" Bilbo whispers, fighting a mischievous smile. He fails.

Thorin stares at him in what might be astonishment for a few moments, before whispering, "Entirely at your service, Master Baggins," and matching Bilbo's expression with a rather unfair smirk of his own.

Bilbo motions him out the door, taking a calming breath or two. The hobbit would be tempted to believe that Thorin was flirting if he hadn't had to teach First Thorin what it was during their respite at Beorn's. Well, actually, he'd taught almost half the First Company what it was, when a teasing comment about Fili and Kili flirting with Ori had drawn half a dozen blank looks and careful questions. Apparently, the practice was entirely foreign to dwarves.

Although Thorin had taken to it like a duck to water in Laketown.

"What is it you wish me to do, then?" Thorin asks, adopting a normal volume once out in the yard. Bilbo pretends to examine Thorin, as if looking for proof of his usefulness. He likes the excuse to look.

"If you'd be so kind as to borrow some fruit from that garden over there," Bilbo finally says, pointing to the Bracegirdles' lot, "I'll get us some eggs. Here," he adds, grabbing a nearby bucket, "You'll need enough for a hungry host."

Thorin raises an eyebrow, "You expect me, rightful King Under the Mountain, to steal fruit from a Hobbit garden like some troublesome fauntling?"

"Only if you expect breakfast, O mighty King," Bilbo replies with a disdainful sniff. He turns and clambers over the fence, without looking at Thorin, even as his soft chuckle drifts to him.

Most of the chickens are still dozing, and Bilbo charms both the rooster and the awake chickens into silence. Not that Hamfast will truly be upset by the intrusion; they often hold steal food from one another, as they always seem to have what the other needs. However, Bilbo won't deny the fact that he wishes to impress Thorin. Waking the chickens and getting pecked to death doesn't sound very impressive.

When he returns the yard, Thorin is waiting for him, bucket almost overflowing with the variety of fruit.

"Perfect," Bilbo says, "And I've got plenty of eggs."

Thorin almost gawps at the amount of eggs Bilbo has pooled in his shirt; his dignity is maintained, but only barely.

"Don't worry, I still left plenty for the family," Bilbo continues, "they have an inordinate amount of chickens for a family of four."

They begin to head inside, but Bilbo pauses next to the shed, "Did you bring any rope with you?"

"Rope?" Thorin says, raising his eyebrow again, "I believe so, yes."

Bilbo nods, purses his lips, and ducks into the shed. He curls a sizable length of rope around his arm before emerging. Thorin shoots him a look, to which Bilbo just shrugs and says, "There's no predicting what we may need."

The dwarf makes a choked noise, and his hand twitches forward, as if to touch Bilbo's arm.

"We?"

Bilbo can feel his ears and the apples of cheeks burning, so he just nods shortly and rushes into the house.

The dwarves meet Bilbo's signature upon the contract with muted good humor, the breakfast with cheers and resounding slaps to the back, and Thorin's role in producing the breakfast with laughter and cries of "What use is a hobbit burglar when we have a king burglar?"

Thorin's quiet response of "Why send the pupil when you can send the master?" does far more to soothe the sting than Bofur and the younger boys' rueful smiles.

Breakfast is quickly done away with, and the houseguests send Bilbo to pack while they clear away the mess. He spends an uncomfortable half hour sitting on his bed, twiddling his thumbs and occasionally flinching at fairly forboding noises coming from the kitchen.

When the party finally departs, the sound of his beloved green door swinging shut inexplicably seems much more so a promise than an end. Bilbo beams at it, unwilling to fight the victorious wiggle in his stomach.

He's going to see mountains again.


End file.
